


ash and smoke

by owlvsdove



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-28 06:54:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2722901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlvsdove/pseuds/owlvsdove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ward offers to help Jemma seek revenge after she’s been brainwashed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ash and smoke

 

It’s the look on her face that does it.

Grant’s not exactly a part of the team, but he’s not exactly  _not_. He’s proven himself tactically too useful to ignore.

But he’s not a part of the op that retrieves Jemma. Ward’s burned his HYDRA bridge once and for all, now. He wouldn’t be of any special use.

May, Skye, and Bobbi go in to get her. That’s a deliberate choice by Coulson. They don’t know the full extent of the damage. They need to be careful.

Grant stands up straight, waiting near the wall. Fitz paces. Fitz is going to wring the skin right off of his hands. Trip looks sick to his stomach, which is terrifying in itself. He’s usually so cool. Even Lance and Mack look upset by the sounds that were being picked up on comms.

But Bobbi’s landing the jet now. They’ll be back soon. Jemma will be back soon.

(They’re all wrong about that.)

 

 

 

 

It’s the look on her face that does it.

She is blank.

It’s not the brainwashing. It’s something else entirely. Invasion hollowed her out. She is empty. Coulson is talking, welcoming her back, and she is still empty. Fitz is looking at her but she is still empty.

The women look distraught.

Grant sees Jemma, empty, and feels a tug. He remembers this feeling. He remembers. Fire-haloed face and alien thoughts making him do things. He remembers. He can’t forget.

The room goes through the motions of relief, of welcoming, but Jemma is largely unresponsive; so there is no relief. No one gets to feel relieved. Rather, Grant wonders if maybe Jemma wants them all to feel like they failed.

Herself included.

That’s not healthy. He’s been trying to work on that. Maybe he should tell her that it’s not healthy.

There’s no one here on this base to blame.

He cocks his head. No one here.

There is someone to blame, though.

No one is waiting for him to say anything. No one expects him to. But there is a lull now, so he steps forward. Closer than strictly necessary. He needs to show her that he identifies with her, ash and smoke, right now.

He feels sorry for being so tall. She shouldn’t have to look up at someone now. He feels sorry.

“I will find him for you,” he says, low and steady. A promise.

May’s hand goes to Jemma’s arm in warning, but Jemma does not yield like she’s supposed to. She does not protest.

Instead, she watches him for a long moment. He can see it so clear on her face. He hopes she can see it too. He’s trying to uncover enough of it. Just enough so she understands.

She nods. Once.

So he goes.

 

 

 

 

(Coulson wants Bakshi found, so he lets Ward go. Ward doesn’t tell him that he was going to go regardless. Ward also doesn’t tell him what he plans to do once he finds him.)

 

 

 

 

It takes him six days. Devil days. Bakshi’s still working for HYDRA, but Whitehall is a distant vision to him now. To all of them. The unsuspecting Delaware base they found him in the first time is clear of both of them.

Ward tracks Bakshi to a hotel in Buenos Aires. Pretty classy joint.

Ward gets blood on the plush white carpet.

 

 

 

 

Sixteen hours later, Ward drops Sunil Bakshi, hogtied and terrified once more, on the ground in front of Jemma.

It’s inhumane, probably. Jemma watches him with a critical eye. Then her eyes flit up to Ward’s. He can see what they say. He is not forgiven. But he is accepted. He is a part of this now.

 

 

 

 

May cuts them off at the vault door. This surprises Ward. Melinda has always understood how this works. Someone hurts you, you hurt them back. They stole something from Jemma. That should infuriate her.

But: “Don’t do this,” May is saying.

“You don’t know what I’m going to do,” Jemma says, which is ridiculous, because everyone knows exactly what she’s going to do and no one has the stomach to let her.

“I do,” May says. “Don’t do this. Let me do it for you.”

Jemma’s edges soften. “You won’t do it.”

May grows very still, very serious, like setting into stone. And it takes a moment, but Jemma seems used to this process and waits silently.

“I would do it,” May says finally, “if it meant that you didn’t have to.”

Ward frowns. A lot has changed while he’s been away.

Jemma shakes her head, and a sorrow overtakes May that Ward is unprepared for. But she moves out of the way of the door so he and Jemma can descend.

 

 

 

 

Jemma Simmons, when properly motivated, makes a good torturer. All neat incisions and little quips. Ward feels a pride a more stable person probably wouldn’t.

She’s milking him for information, as though that’s going to save him. But she knows it’s not. And the safety of the foregone conclusion is helping her succeed in the presence of her villain.

Ward used to be her villain. But things change. Change feels good.

Bakshi doesn’t have any information. His failures meant a demotion and relocation. And this makes Simmons sigh, faux-disappointed. Grant smirks.

She unholsters her weapon.

Fear seizes Bakshi unwillingly. Jemma is a thing to behold, truly. A confidence she never quite matches in real life, a determination so focused on destruction, and a gun. She’s very casual. She’s putting on a show.

This is not her. Not really. This is more like Ward. Or her best approximation.

He may have pushed her too far.

“Simmons,” he says neutrally, because now is not the time for him to try his hand at calling her  _Jemma_. “You can’t come back from this.”

She rolls her eyes. “Are you planning on sharing your opinion, Ward, or are you going to continue on with platitudes?”

He half-grins at her. Despite circumstance, this feels good. “It’s not my place to have an opinion.”

“And if I’m asking?” she lilts.

The girl is playing with fire. Well, she’s pretending to. She knows he’s not fire underneath. He thinks she knows that.

He repeats: “You can’t come back from this.”

“I’ve never killed anyone,” she says. “But I have been responsible for the death of others.”

He wants to argue that she hasn’t, but this isn’t really the time and it’s a bit of a moot point with her gun pressed to a man’s chest.

“There a difference.”

“I’ve recently become curious about that difference,” she reasons sweetly. She’s being glib on purpose. She’s being cruel. She’s being him.

“Bakshi didn’t brainwash you,” he says, a little too fast. And he’s surprised the words come out.

Her face grows stormy and threatening. He can’t see it, but he can see the reflection of it in Bakshi’s face. “ _He_  activated me.”

“Someone was always going to activate you, Simmons. That was inevitable.”

She says nothing.

“Leave Bakshi. Go after the real target.”

“Whitehall,” she breathes.

“Yes,” he says, stalking closer. “He’s the one that chained you up. He’s the one that terrorized you and filled you with lies.” Her chin might be wobbling now. Don’t turn around. He doesn’t want to see her face.

Her head whips around to look at him.

He continues out of necessity: “Bakshi is a pawn. So let someone else take care of him. We can find Whitehall. We can take him out.”

Her eyes are wide and beseeching. If he turns out to be a liar, she will turn him into a pawn, too. She’s done too much now, been burned too badly. If he crosses her, he really will die from it.

But he decided a long while ago to keep his promises.

She puts her gun away, backing up and nodding her head at him once. She’s giving him permission. Ward closes the show. He walks forward, leans down close to Bakshi’s face.

“You brainwashed an innocent girl,” Ward growls.

“She’s not innocent anymore,” Bakshi pants, unhinged and winning, delirious from being spared. “Nor would I say she’s a  _girl._ ”

He’s probably full of shit. Probably just winding Ward up to crack him open. What he’s implying is probably not true. He doesn’t look at Simmons’ face to find out. He remembers the emptiness and it gnaws, toothless and dull, at him; so he lays his fist into Bakshi’s head hard once more, and the lights go out in him.

 They leave Bakshi, bleeding but alive.

 

 

 

 

(Of course they were all watching. A few of them give Ward a grateful eye, like he steered Simmons away from a life-altering mistake.

But he keeps his promises.

He’s steering her towards something a lot worse.)

 

 

 

 

May is not a fool. She seeks the pair of them out almost immediately.

“I’m coming with you.”

“Coulson needs you here,” Jemma says.

“ _You_  need me with you.”

It looks like its working on Jemma, so Ward breaks in. “I didn’t sign up for a tag-along,” he puts off.

“Don’t be nasty,” Jemma says automatic and sharp.

Okay, fine. May is important. Ward can live with that.

“You’re going to try and stop us,” he says instead.

“I’m here to supervise,” May says. “I don’t trust you.”

“I’m hurt, May.”

“Don’t think for a second that I didn’t see what you were doing in there.”

“She wants to do this. I—”

“Stop,” Jemma says, cutting. “Stop arguing.” She takes a deep breath. “I want to find Whitehall and remove his heart from his body.”

They stop. Her darkly muttered threat is concerning to both of them. Ward feels doubt for the second time. Maybe he’s pushing her too far.

Maybe it’s a good idea to keep May with them.

“May’s coming,” Jemma says.

Ward acquiesces, pretending to be put out for a moment. “Fine.”

So it’s settled.

 

 

 

 

(It takes them three weeks of HYDRA bases and motel rooms before they find him. They’re getting valuable intel in that time, which May appreciates. But night brings Jemma crying in May’s bed and holding on for dear life. Night brings nightmares.)

 

 

 

 

Grant leaves Jemma, knees to chest, on May’s bed at the Ukranian motel they’ve found themselves in. May gives him a warning look as he leaves. She won’t go with him; she’s here for Jemma. But this better not make things worse.

He gets it. Loud and clear.

He returns four hours later with a bruised lip.

Jemma gazes over it but deliberately does not open her mouth. She’s not ready to take care of him again.

He’s gentle with her, though. This isn’t going to be easy. He says nothing, just nods to May, cants his head towards the door. Jemma slinks out of bed, out past dingy walls and into overcast sky. At the bottom of the stairs he kneels on the ground. Concern etches into May’s face. But Jemma knows what he wants.

Extra gentle.

“Come on,” he says, playing with her. “Hop on, princess.”

Jemma’s taken aback for a moment. She tries not to smile. Tries not to give in. But he doesn’t question her for letting go of her anger for a moment. He wants them to be friends again.

She climbs onto his back.

“It’s almost over,” he says soothingly, quietly. He doesn’t know why he says it, it just comes out of him.

It feels so good, for the briefest of moments, to sink back into ten months ago. It feels so good.

Her arms are secure around his neck.

They pick their way through the woods behind the motel, thick with dying brush. Ward can tell May’s canvassing, mapping out the indistinguishable trees in case things turn south. They won’t, though. He promises. He wants to promise.

Whitehall, bound motionless but still conscious, is half a mile in, face in the dirt. Ward sets Jemma down as May rolls him over with her boot.

“Look what we have here,” the man says. “Grant Ward, the traitor. The legendary Melinda May, who had her face stolen. And Bakshi’s little pet? What a ragtag bunch.”

Whitehall doesn’t seem scared. Jemma wants to change that.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Jemma draws her weapon.

“Are you upset about my comment? I apologize,  _Dr. Simmons_.” Then, as an aside: “Never had much of a taste for women’s lib.”

“I’m not surprised,” Jemma says, and her voice is cutting.

“There’s no need for violence, dear.”

Jemma cuts her eyes to May. In response, May punches Whitehall square in the face.

His eyes roll as he attempts to realign his jaw. He’s angry now. “You should know,” he threatens. “I’m pretty hard to kill.”

Jemma grits her teeth. “So am I.”

She almost looks at Ward. Almost.

“I didn’t want to kill you; I wanted to use you,” he reasons. “And I did.”

“You’re about to pay for that.” Her voice is shaking.

He laughs. He  _laughs_. “You really think you can pull the trigger? You’re too saccharine for murder, Jemma Simmons. You couldn’t bear the weight of pulling the—”

She does.

Ward stares.

The plane is crashing in her. Her stomach is dropping and the oxygen is falling from the ceiling but she can’t grab hold of it, she can’t help herself. There is a bullet in evil’s head. But it didn’t fix anything.

She straightens up, holsters her weapon. Ward remembers to breathe. Ward remembers.

He’d stashed kerosene, so he moves clumsily to get it. He doesn’t look at her face when it splashes over the deadness, into the bullet hole in the forehead. But he hands her the match.

Jemma hesitates. She holds the lit match until burnt fingers let go of cinders. He lights her another one. She takes it. They could do this all night.

But they don’t have to.

“Finish it, Jemma,” May says quietly.

She gasps, letting out a sob. Finally. “It’s not just for me,” she breaks. “It’s for Donnie. And Agent Palamas.”

It’s the first time she’s sounded like herself in weeks. May nods, so Ward nods too. May cups the back of her head comfortingly. Ward does not touch her.

She drops the match.

The brightness blinds his dusk-softened eyes. Everything was pure blue and gray. Now light is bouncing wildly. He feels little satisfaction from this. But he’d be a carriage for the princess any time. He turns to tell her that. But.

She hunches down close to the ground to hug her knees. She’s crying. She’s crying so much. The untamed howling of a child, of an animal. The trees don’t feel friendly anymore. Grant grows more and more distraught by the second. It feels like drowning. It feels like what he did to them.

The fire is growing. The fire is eating everything up, slowly but consistently, and it will never stop. It will never stop, will it? Why did he invite it in like a friend?  Nothing can stop it.

He doesn’t notice May noticing him.

“It’s spreading,” May says. “Let’s go.”

“I can’t leave,” Ward murmurs automatically. He doesn’t even know what those words mean. Jemma’s still crying. Baby Jemma.

May gives him a long look. “Yes, you can.”

It’s the kindest she’s been to him, maybe ever. More than he deserves. He grabs a hold of himself long enough to blink his tears away, lean down and pick Jemma up. She wraps her arms around him and sobs into his shirt, baptizing him in saltwater drip by drip.

He’s really glad May is here.

They get in the car which takes them to the plane which takes them to the base. Eight hours. Jemma is spent, tight and aching from  _too much_. May’s been tense at the wheel. Ward’s been silent.

They were chasing dark timezones, so they come home by the moon.

No one’s awake. This is a blessing.

Jemma trails behind them as they walk through the long hallway to their bunks. They don’t pause at her door, because May seems to already know the answer to Ward’s question. He splits off, across the hall, to leave them. So he can breathe through the last several years.

Jemma stops him, rasping. “Put ice on it.”

His brow furrows.

“Your lip.”

He breathes. He nods. He watches them disappear into May’s room.

He makes it through the door just fast enough so his tears don’t spill in the hall.

There is no sleep for him that night.

(Jemma sleeps well.)

 


End file.
